Category Archives: Valentines Day

A little late perhaps but romantic soul that I am I completely forgot about it

It was not until I pulled up at the garridge to get a spot orf red diesel for me old motor that I noticed buckets orf red roses and piles orf very classy red velvet love heart chocolate boxes. Clearly something up. Has Comrade Corbyn perchance snuffed it? Quick check orf Deadpool on cuntphone but no such luck. Failed to twig until I got to the till. Old slapper that jockeys fuel batted her lashes and shoved some Valentine cards at me. £3.95 a pop. Fuck that. I shall do what I usually do and wait until tomorrow and buy up a spot orf wooing gear half price. Have never wasted any money orn the wifey but I do have a little bit orn the side, namely the undergardener’s daughter. Ah Chloe my love, tits on her like a harvest orf marrows and a minge that smells orf new mown hay. I might have a touch orf emphysema but I need no oxygen when I am down there – and what a way to die. And as a prelude I shall present her with a stunning bunch orf half price red roses. I know, call me a romantic old cunt but such is life in all its shite and glory.

Motoring back through toine the streets were alive with ardent swains clutching their bunches orf Tesco roses and their tottering high heeled slappers girly giggling piss drunk with love pink sausage balloons around their necks twisted into love hearts and pierced by arrows shaped like a bull’s cock. Oh yes,classy place rural Herefordshire. Confess I was tempted by the candle lit two for one romantic dinner in the local pizza joint. But all this commercialised yank crap should come with a health warning orn every strawberry flavoured condom and bottle orf over priced Valentine Prosecco. Love’s Young Dream has a very short shelf life. Listen young man while old Sir Limply acquaints you the real facts orf life.

I put before you the period and the menopause. If you survive one you are unlikely to survive the other. Sir Limply suggests that you keep a campaign diary so that you have some chance of predicting in the mayhem orf marital life when it is most judicious to decamp to the pub and stay there. Young man, you cannot fight fate. Soon enough one day you will be badgered into putting your hand up there (after having been made to cut your nails) and once you have nearly put your elbow out orf joint will eventually withdraw to find your fingers covered in an odoriferous brown sticky liquid and little curly grey hairs. Thus fired up your inamorata will demand the full monty and you will be expected to service a very dry gulch. Such is the sunset orf loves sweet dream. Take it from an old campaigner you ardent young gentlemen, your cock will never be the same again. Happy Valentine.